Memoirs of a Bodyguard
by Lunar Mist
Summary: Ironhide desperately needed a job. Times were hard, and he needed credits. He hadn't expected to be hired at the future prime's bodyguard. Soundwave was a special youngling, talented in everything he did, but he might have met his match when he was assigned at the future lord protectorate's bodyguard. Sparklings!Optimus&Megatron and Bodyguards!Soundwave&Ironhide. Sporadic updates
1. Pilot: Ironhide

1) You guys ever have a plot bunny that grabs onto your leg and refuses to let go. This was one such bunny.

2) If you desire to link up these fic with my other 'verses, The Ironhide-Optimus one lines up with Gaining a Gladiator's Spark (GAGS), and the Soundwave-Megatron will line up more with Through a Cybercat's Optics. My other OCs MIGHT show up in later chapters, but it'll be _way_ later. Way, way later.

3) In this, Ironhide is middle-age-ish, maybe 30 in human years. Optimus is... I dunno, six months to a year? i don't really deal with itty-bitty kids.

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**Pilot: Ironhide**

8,305 words

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Iacon Square was completely crowded, a common occurrence during off-cycles and work-cycles alike. It was a busy atmosphere that drew bots from near and far, an atmosphere that the locals thrived on. Street vendors and trade mechs called out advertisements for their wares, hoping to draw in one of the high caste femmes or mechs to their booths and carts. Green-opticed traders offered free samples of exotic energon mixes to those passing by in hopes of pulling a customer in to purchase one of the larger, overpriced cubes. Giggling femmes dragged their mechs around, pointing out different items they wished to purchase. They tittered over the little petrohound puppies and oohed over the sparkly jewelry, each hoping that their subtle hints would lead to their mech purchasing them what they wanted.

And in the very center of all this was a single red-opticed military mech. He was a large mech by most standards. His thick black armor covered heavy-duty cables made and honed for lifting heavy weapons and throwing hard punches. Scars littered his frame, deep scratches and cuts that he had never had the money or the motivation to get repaired. He wasn't alive to impress other bots with his handsome body. His scars showed every other bot that he could hold his own in a battle, warning other military mechs to stay away from him, and as expected, it made him look intimidating to the dainty uppercase bots, who shied around him whenever they caught sight of who, or what in their optics, they were walking by. Of course, his red optics made him intimidating enough, even without the scar riddled frame. Everybot knew that red sighted military mechs were only capable of violence unless educated by an upper-caste mech. Of course, that gave this mech a rugged appeal to the upper-caste femmes. Every femme likely a mechly mech.

This mech wasn't there for the femmes, though. He wasn't even there for the wares, which was usually why warriors came to Iacon. No, he was there for a reason that none of the upper-caste bots would have guessed.

He was there for a job. Times were hard, especially for mechs like him, and he _needed_ this job. Nowadays, the only position a military mech could hope to gain that had good pay was that of a pit fighter, one who killed his fellow military-caste bots for entertainment. He might be a warrior that didn't cringe at the sight of processed life-energon, but that didn't mean he wanted to be a mech that spilled it needlessly every cycle. He was above that. He was _more_ than bot that thought and acted like an organic animal, even if that was what the Senate wanted every other Cybertronian to believe.

He navigated the city-state like a mech on a mission, striding purposefully through the large crowds and pointedly ignoring the concerned and shocked looks on the elitists' faces as he shoved past them. Their opinion of him didn't matter. He only concerned himself with the opinion of the mech that would interview him in only three breems.

The black mech paused when he turned down another heavily crowded street and grimaced. He hated crowds. It wasn't that he didn't like being surrounded by people; he wasn't worried about that. He always worried that someone would accuse him of something, though. He never knew when some femme was going to throw herself on the ground and claim that he had shoved her. Assault on a blue-sight would _not_ do him good, and he wouldn't put it past one of these snobs to pull something like that. He'd have to be careful until he reached his destination.

With that unpleasant thought in mind, he began his trip through the crowd, his arms close to his body and his elbows tucked in as much as possible. He had consulted his map multiple times on the trip already, but he could now see the enormous building he was moving toward, making the map rather redundant. As it was, he was fairly certain this street would take him directly to his destination.

The rest of his trip was fairly uneventful. The upper-caste bots mostly strayed away from him, avoiding him as if he had cosmic rust, and strangely, enough, he was okay with that. The last thing he needed was to bump into someone else and gain a huge scratch of another color. The powder blue and pastel pink that was popular at the moment would stand out painfully against his black frame, and he didn't want to give his (hopefully) future employer something _else_ to point out during the interview. He _needed_ this job.

The building was _huge_. It may not be the tallest building in Iacon, but it was easily the most grand. Just _looking_ at it made the black mech feel inferior, and for good reason! He could guarantee that not just _any_ mech or femme was allowed inside. The Prime's Abode was only open to others by appointment or invitation, and only blue and yellow castes would receive such invitations or appointments. He should be honored to be allowed entrance to such a place, but he only felt unease. He would not fit in here, and if the prime was looking for a mech that matched this palace, then the warrior _knew_ he wouldn't get this job.

Still, he wouldn't know until he tried. Getting to the gate that guarded the entrance was quite a feat in itself. Tourists and local elitists alike crowded the gate, each hoping to catch a glance of the famous Sentinel Prime and his new sparkling ward. The black mech sifted through the crowd, actually thankful that people shifted away once they caught sight of him. He kept his arms close to himself, not wanting to be the "cause" of any trouble. People glared at him and whispered as he passed, but he ignored it. He expected nothing less in a city populated primarily by blue-sights and politicians.

"And just what is a _fighter_ doing in Iacon?" a gruff voice questioned. Despite all the noise around him, this single voice rang out over the din, though no bots aside from the black warrior seemed to hear it. The black mech frowned, turning to respond, and red optics locked with red optics. The other mech was a pale green, scars littering his body in a fashion much like the black mech's. His lithe build spoke of speed and agility that the black mech would admit to lacking, and a cy-gar was tucked into his mouth, giving him an edgy look that the black mech hadn't expected to see in Iacon.

"I'm here for a job. I was summoned by Sentinel Prime," the black mech responded, his voice accented from his time in Tarn. The other mech gave him a strange look, one that suggested the black mech was not what was expected but implied that that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"You Ironhide?" the green mech asked, taking the cy-gar from his mouth and rolling it between two fingers as he eyed the black mech.

"Yes. I am Ironhide of Kaon, resident of Tarn," the black mech responded with a curt nod. The green mech grunted, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he studied the mech.

"Well, yer not what we expected, but I guess it ain't our d'cision," the green mech responded. Before Ironhide could ask about the statement, the green mech continued, "C'mon. I'll take ya to the prime, and we'll see if yer what he's lookin' for."

The green mech started walking, and Ironhide was quick to follow after him. Whereas Ironhide had been hesitant with the people around him, the green mech had no such reservations. He shoved mechs and physically moved femmes to the side as he made his way up to the gate. Ironhide closely shadowed him, not having the gumption to shove people aside as this green military mech had. With the green mech's rough movements, it didn't take long to reach the front of the crowd, and the green mech paused in front of the gate.

"I got the mech for the interview," he informed the red-opticed mech on the other side. The polished red mech glanced over at Ironhide and gave him a quick look-over before snorting in amusement, raising an optic ridge incredulously.

"Well, this will be quick," he stated as he opened the gate just wide enough to allow the two mechs passage. Ironhide scowled at the slightly older mech and opened his mouth to tell him _just what_ he thought of his opinion.

"Now's not the time, son," the green mech claimed as he pushed at Ironhide's shoulder, not quite strong enough to shove the bulkier mech forward. Ironhide snorted, an irritated exvent that cause red mech to scoff in amusement, before he started forward, following after the pale green mech as he jogged ahead to lead the way.

"My name's Kup, by the way, not that it's important right now. When we get inside, you'd do best ta keep yer hands at yer side so that none of the snobs think yer stealin' from 'em. Keep yer chin high as if you _belong there_, and ever'one should leave ya 'lone." Ironhide nodded behind him as they approached the front entrance, huge gilded doors the only thing stopping them. Kup strode right up to the purple-opticed footmen and introduced Ironhide and his purpose for being there.

"Has he been _cleared_?" the servant caste mech questioned, sneering at the other mechs. Servant caste was an extremely low caste, standing only _just_ _above_ the military caste. It wasn't uncommon for purple-sights to act above a red-opticed mech or femme because that was the only time they could act superior without being punished.

"Frag you, Turnabout, and your slaggin' ignorance!" Kup snapped. "You let me in or I'll have the prime after yer aft before you c'n vent!"

The red mech, Turnabout, gave Kup a condescending look, but obeyed, opening the large door with a sweeping gesture that was likely meant to be insulting. The two military mechs scowled at the mech and stalked past him.

"You'll get a lot of _that_ here, too. Just treat them like ya would another military mech. The socialites aren't that bad, but those fraggin' purple-sights," Kup grumped as he led Ironhide into the building.

If the outside was considered grand, then there were no words that could describe the inside. None of them seemed strong enough, sincere enough. The silver metal walls held elegant etches and beautiful paintings, and the ceilings were supported by towering arches. Small pedestals held rare, porcelain vases, and Ironhide felt the need to stare. Porcelain was _extremely_ expensive, because the raw materials, things like clay and silica, weren't found on Cybertron but on organic planets. On top of that, porcelain was difficult to create and extremely fragile in clumsy metal hands. Only the best of tradesmechs dealt in porcelain.

"C'mon, town-mech," Kup called to him, and Ironhide scowled as he caught up to him.

"Tarn's a city-state," he hissed, not enjoying the assumption that he was some sort of country bumpkin because he had never seen such fineries before. In Tarn, a city-state governed by the militaristic leader Shockwave, fineries were unnecessary. Pit, he had all his belongings in his subspace at the moment, so few possessions had he to his name. Kup ignored his statement as he led him through huge atrium filled with light and windows that branched off from the right side of the large lobby-like area he had entered through, and the two mechs walked to a lift at the back of the atrium.

"Now, Sentinel Prime is already expecting ya, and you'll wanna know a few things about how things are gonna work. When you walk in, Prime'll greet ya and ask you a few questions 'bout yer past jobs. Answer honestly, and be brief," Kup and Ironhide stepped onto the lift, and Kup continued as the lift took them upward to the second floor. Kup led Ironhide off the lift and into a hall that took them deeper into the building. "If ya pass the first part, he'll take ya onto the next part of the interview, which'll be a test of ya fightin' skills. Pass that, and ya get to the final part of the process. That's the decidin' part."

They stopped in front of a door, and Kup turned to look at Ironhide. The black mech felt that the pale green guard was sizing him up, and Ironhide was suddenly uncertain how he would measure. He wasn't quite sure what the prime was looking for in this position; all he knew was that it was a bodyguard position. For whom, he knew not, and he wasn't sure if he would fit the bill. After all, if it was some sort of femme… no elitist femme was going to want a scarred-up mech-wrecker like him following her around, and no mech would want someone as intimidating as he scaring off all his friends.

"You'll do fine," Kup finally announced. "Good luck."

And then the door opened, and he shoved Ironhide in. Ironhide barely caught his balance before he tripped, and he straightened to gaze across the room into Sentinel Prime's gentle yellow optics. The mech was seated behind a large titanium desk littered with datapads, a single cube of energon in an ornate reusable cube, and a single holocube that showed pictures of the mechling that Ironhide assumed was the next prime.

"Come, Ironhide. Have a seat, and we shall begin the interview," Sentinel ordered calmly, gesturing to the metal chair across from his desk. Ironhide nodded and strode across the immaculate office, glancing around at the beautiful pictures of various global wonders, such as the Helix Gardens and the Sea of Light. Two datapad cases filled with datapads were situated against the wall behind his desk, and Ironhide spied an energon dispenser off to the right on a tall table. He gingerly took a seat in the surprisingly comfortable metal chair, and Sentinel immediately started the interview, lifting a datapad into his hand and reading off of it.

"Your datafile states you hail from Tyrest, yet you relocated to Tarn. Was there any specific reason for the change?" Ironhide shrugged his left shoulder, not particularly expecting this to be the first question. He had expected Sentinel to ask for his credentials, along with his work history and employer opinions as his previous interviewers of his last three near-miss job opportunities had.

"I needed a job. Nobody in Tyrest wanted to hire a bot with scars and red optics," he stated evenly, no accusation in his tone. He was simply stating a fact. The corners of Sentinel's mouth pulled down, but he didn't comment.

"And you found work in Tarn, correct? Can you detail your work for me?"

"I was in charge of defending the medbay area against Seeker attacks. Sometimes, they had me defend the femme section of the base whenever one of the femmes was with spark."

"And there were no conflicts?" Sentinel's sharp optics speared Ironhide, gaining a frown from the black mech. "The upper castes have been led to believe that the military caste mechs hold no constraints on injuring weak sparklings and taking femmes for their own when undefended by their mate." Ironhide's optics narrowed at the tactless statement, wondering just what this mech was trying to do. Sentinel Prime employed a good number of military-grade mechs as guards and would know how to act around one. He was also a very wise mech that _never_ purposefully insulted a mech.

"If that is what you believe, then may I ask why you summoned me? I do not need a summoning to be put down, if that is your goal. I can receive that anywhere I go," Ironhide stated, fighting back the snarl that wanted to rise in his voice.

"Then you understand that even with this job, you will still receive negative feedback from those around you? This job will not change your standing in society," Sentinel informed him firmly, his golden optics locked on the black mech in front of him.

"I'm military caste, but that doesn't mean I'm _stupid_," Ironhide bit out, beginning to wonder if perhaps he should just leave. "It's not _possible_ to jump castes. I figured that out when I was a youngling and the servant caste caretaker next door laughed at me for wanting to be an entertainer." Sentinel's frown returned, his optics softening in something like compassion.

"Yes. The caste system is not kind to all, is it? I do hope you can deter all insults like that without throwing fists like a barbarian. The mechs and femmes you will be forced to deal with on a cycle-to-cycle basis will likely say such tasteless things, and the first time it is proven that you injured another because of their tactlessness and your own temper, you will be released of your duties." Ironhide stared at the prime, red optics wide in surprise. That had been a _test_? He had said those things just to see if Ironhide would snap. It made him wonder what the other bots would likely be saying to him. If _Sentinel_ felt the need to test his temper, he feared what the other elitists would do and say to likewise check how "barbaric" the red-sight was.

"Now," Sentinel continued, looking back down at the datapad in his hand, "I have looked up your credentials, and all your employers have given you shining reviews. In spite of all of this, you still are in rather desperate need of a job. Can you give me a reason why?"

"I can't truly say," Ironhide began, fighting his grimace. "Shockwave released me from duty when he found a medic that had good fighting skills. Likewise, he found another mech that protected the femmes full-time. There just weren't any other jobs open."

"I see," Sentinel responded. At this point, he set down the datapad, entwined his fingers in front of him, and leaned forward on the desk as he turned his attention fully to the red-opticed mech across from him. "Ironhide, the bot that you will be defending is very important to me. We have brought in bodyguard after bodyguard, and this bot has taken to none of them. If you succeed the next test, a test of skill in battle and defense, you will meet this bot, and if he accepts you, you receive the job on the spot. Pay, rooming, and the like will be negotiated afterwards, but I only wished to give you a fair warning that you might be the very best fighter on this planet and not receive this job. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I will strive to succeed," Ironhide responded, simply because there was nothing else to say. Sentinel smiled then, a gentle curving of his lip components that told Ironhide that even though he was at the very bottom of the caste system, Sentinel did not view him as trash like every other bot did.

"Very well," Sentinel responded, rising to his pedes behind the desk. Ironhide blinked in surprise, but rose as well. All his other interviews had required far more questions, things about his background, his creators, and "what if" situations that he would respond to. Sentinel had asked fewer than five questions! "Let us move on to the next test."

Sentinel strode around the desk and exited the office, glancing back only once to ensure that Ironhide was following after him. Instead of walking in front of him as any other upper-caste mech would have done, Sentinel slowed until he walked in step with Ironhide, giving Ironhide an idea of how much taller the prime was than he.

"You came to me quite recommended. How exactly did you meet Impactor?" Sentinel asked conversationally. Ironhide blinked at the question then grinned. So _that_ was how Sentinel heard of him. Ironhide hadn't _applied_ for this job, after all, but had been summoned.

"We used to work together in Tarn. He started in tactics, then he transferred to some leadership role. Then he left for better work. Guess he works here now?" A part of Ironhide lifted at the thought of Impactor working in the Prime's Abode. He hadn't seen his friend in quite a while, and he couldn't argue the joy that would come from having a friend in this sea of elites.

"No, he moved on to work with Killswitch on the Defense Force," Sentinel informed him. Ironhide's grin only grew.

"I should've expected something like that. We always knew Impactor would get some fancy job working with bigwigs. Mech's got the ambition to dream it and gumption to achieve it."

"You are happy for your friend," Sentinel observed, and sparking red optics met his gold ones.

"Course I am! Any military mech that can get that far is an inspiration to the rest of us," Ironhide responded. Sentinel's look became calculating, and Ironhide realized that this whole conversation must have been another test. No matter. He _was_ proud of Impactor, and if that torqued off the prime, then it wasn't his problem.

"What of your own ambitions? Have you any specific hopes for the future?" Sentinel questioned. Ironhide gave him another half-shrug as he glanced at a passing blue-opticed mech.

"I guess the same as any other military bot: I wanna be treated like a real mech instead of expendable scrap. Other than that, I'm at a loss. I don't know what I want to do."

"You earlier mentioned your desire to be an entertainer," Sentinel recalled. "What is your talent?"

Ironhide snorted before he could restrain himself. He gave Sentinel an amused sideways glance before shaking his helm and returning his attention to the hall before him. "I'm a military mech. I can blow things up, tear things down, kill mechs that cross me, and find hundreds of ways to slaughter a mech seconds after meeting him. Red-sights don't _have_ talents; we have _directives_."

As Ironhide spoke, Sentinel's lips pulled downward into an expression that crossed between a scowl and a frown. The black mech beside him spoke with honesty, simply stating a fact that he had been told since he was young. His expression was hard, that of a mech that had spent time doing exactly what he had just said because some other bot had told him to. It sickened Sentinel, but the prime _knew_ the Senate wouldn't abolish the caste system, not when it brought them so much power. It was why Sentinel employed so many red-opticed military mechs and purple-opticed servant mechs: because these mechs weren't emotionless and cruel, no matter how much every other bot believed them to be.

"Surely you do something in your free time," Sentinel persisted. Ironhide shook his helm.

"If I did, I can assure you I wouldn't speak such a thing in such a public place with the _prime_ standing beside me. I mean no offense, my prime, but I am already breaking the law; I know how to read."

Sentinel's helm whipped around in the most graceless manner, and shocked yellow optics locked with Ironhide's black and silver helm. While it was frowned upon for servant caste mechs to read, a military mech learning was completely outlawed. After all, they were murderers and savages of the worst kind. If they were to learn how to read, what havoc could they wreak with that knowledge? Of course, many middle-caste mechs shrugged this off, saying that any bot that could read could cause trouble with that knowledge. The Senate was adamant on this though. Sentinel was disgusted to know that this was only another way the Senate kept the strongest caste oppressed. Unfortunately, a prime could only do so much, and changing such laws was out of his abilities.

"How did you learn?" Sentinel asked after quickly regaining his composure.

"Shockwave ensures that his mechs know how to read orders when they are sent via datapad. We are then ordered to never let another non-red spark know about our abilities."

"Shockwave is a wise leader," Sentinel murmured, surprised to actually have something positive to say about the militaristic computer on legs. Ironhide snorted.

"Naw. It was just another strategy for him. The best army is one that has intelligence," Ironhide responded with a grin. Sentinel found himself smiling, too, despite the mech's mildly depressing words.

"Ah, here we are," Sentinel suddenly noted as they approached a set of double doors. The doors slid open with a hiss as they approached, and Ironhide just about felt his spark stop.

It was a military mech's playground, a fighter's dream. The far half of the room was separated by a clear force field, and Ironhide could see the holo-generators. It was a practice stadium. He could battle to his military spark's content, fight with opponents without sparks. He wondered how high the difficulty levels got to and how long it would take him to defeat every false opponent.

He tore his optics away from that to look at the huge shooting range to his right. Mobile targets were set up half a racing stadium away, and he was willing to bet that he could hit every single target. A polite call of his name brought him back to reality, and he turned to look at Sentinel. The prime was standing in front of a counter to Ironhide's left, and behind that counter was a huge set of shelves that held guns, knives, and swords. No maces or exotic weapons like that, but he could get such armaments elsewhere if he truly desired them.

"Bulls-eye will get you set up with a weapon," Sentinel stated, gesturing to the counter just as a mech stood up from behind it. He must have been rearranging something underneath. Like Kup and the gate guard, this mech had red optics, and Ironhide instantly felt at ease. A military mech would know his weapons. Not that this mattered.

"I don't need a weapon," Ironhide replied confidently. "I've got my own." Sentinel seemed surprised by this. This was the first time a warrior had turned down the use of one of his high-end, expensive weapons to use their own, but he supposed there was always a first for everything. This Ironhide character seemed to surprise him at every turn.

"Very well. You will be using the practice area over there," Sentinel stated, gesturing to the far half of the room. "I will set the holo-generators for a specific circumstance, and your objective is to protect the precious cargo without harming it. And _believe me_, you will know if you harm it. Compute?"

"I understand," Ironhide responded with a cocky grin. Fighting he was good at. _This_ he could do.

"Very well. Enter through the force field, and I will activate the field and start up the objective." Ironhide nodded, and the two mechs walked the distance to the practice area. Sentinel stopped by the holo-generator as Ironhide walked on, and the prime started fiddling with the controls with an ease that spoke of experience in this room. Perhaps their prime wasn't as defenseless as he seemed, Ironhide noted as the force field yielded to him, then hardened once he had passed through.

"Your objective is at your pedes," Sentinel informed him. "Pick it up."

Ironhide crouched down and lifted the objective up. It was a bundle of metal wrapped up in a mesh heating blanket. Ironhide was about to unwrap it to see what was supposed to be inside, but Sentinel spoke again.

"These parties are attempting to steal your objective, destroying you and it however they can. Defend it, and eliminate your assailants."

Three mechs appeared, each having a different optic color, and behind each mech were four or five other mechs with optics that matched whichever leader they were with. Ironhide's optics narrowed as he hugged the objective close to his chest, and he pulled out his plasma cannon.

"Come and get it," Ironhide growled lowly as was his habit. He may not like killing, but it didn't mean fights didn't make his energon race. There was a single thing the upper caste was right about: red-opticed mechs were created to fight. Battling was in Ironhide's core programming, and just like every other warrior on the planet, combat made his spark soar.

As if his words were the signal to start, the three leading mechs dashed forward. Ironhide immediately jumped into action. The first one exploded into a shower of sparks when Ironhide's shot hit in directly in the chest, and Ironhide spun away from the other two, using his cannon to punch one of their heads in and shooting the other one close-range. Both exploded into a shower of sparks, and two of the backup from all teams leapt forward to take their leaders' places.

It was all instinct from there. Ironhide moved with a grace that didn't seem to suit his lumbering frame, pivoting easily and lunging around and toward his foes as he battled, his face holding a confident smirk with every mech he "destroyed." He was actually rather sad once the fight ended. His cannon discharged into the chest of the mech that had been grabbing for the objective, and that mech disappeared. Ironhide prepared for the next challenger, only to find that there were none.

Sentinel's applause broke him from his battle lust, and he straightened as he glanced around himself then down at the objective in his arms. He resituated the object in his hands, and to his surprise, a small squeak came from inside the bundle. Ironhide stared at the little object and was about to pull back the mesh blanket when it suddenly disappeared in a shower of sparks. Ironhide pulled back in surprise and turned his attention to Sentinel, who had an amused look on his faceplates.

"You are trying to skip ahead. You will find out what that objective is," Sentinel assured him. "Follow me."

Ironhide had to jog to catch up as Sentinel set off at a brisk pace. In fact, if Ironhide didn't know better, he would have said that Sentinel was _excited_. That seemed illogical, though. Any military mech could have defeated those projections. They might have shaken up the objective a little, but not enough to damage it.

"Ironhide, this is the most crucial part of your interview, the part that will decide whether you have this job or not. I will warn you that he bot that needs protection is rather picky with whom he deals with. If he rejects your presence, you will leave the Abode at once, and you will receive expedience credits for taking your time to come here."

That was more than Ironhide was expecting, to be honest. He had expected the guard to turn him away at the front gate. He had expected Sentinel to be disgusted by his battle lust and scars. He had expected to be sent back to Tarn without any restitution. Again and again, this Sentinel character surprised him.

The rest of the journey was made in silence, broken only by passing mechs that paused to greet Sentinel Prime and glance warily at Ironhide. The black mech was surprised to see that each bot had a different color of optics. It was almost as if the caste system didn't exist in this place, and that fact kind of made Ironhide uneasy. How much was just for appearance sake?

"Here," Sentinel finally said, a grin on his face as he strode up to a door. "Now, I request you remain calm, because I doubt you will expect this."

Ironhide frowned in confusion as the door hissed open and Sentinel stepped through. A loud, excited squeal rose from inside, and Ironhide felt his spark drop. No. There was _no way_ Sentinel was trying to hire him to guard the future prime. It wasn't possible. Even as those thoughts went through his mind, he strode into the room and took in the sight of Sentinel Prime holding a small blue and silver sparkling over his helm. Sentinel's optics turned to Ironhide's, and his grin softened as he lowered the sparkling and settled him over his strong spark.

"Orion, I have brought a mech for you to meet," Sentinel cooed, gaining another giggling squeal from his sparkling ward. He walked over to Ironhide in three large strides, and strong yellow optics locked with Ironhide's military red. "Orion, this is Ironhide. Ironhide, Orion."

There was a beat of silence as the two introduced parties took each other in. The small mechling was adorable, even to a hard-sparked mech like Ironhide. His thin blue plating had hardened enough that it was no longer translucent, but the delicate cables underneath still peeked through between underdeveloped metal plates. Wide blue optics were set in a face that was made chubby by excess metal that would be used by his body to strengthen his plating. In fact, his whole body seemed chubby, a common trait among sparklings, and his movements were uncoordinated and awkward, giving Ironhide a mild guess at him age. On the sides of his helm were small antenna, and they twitched in time with his scattered and quickly changing emotions.

The beat of silence probably didn't last very long, yet to Ironhide, it was an eternity. Little Orion studied Ironhide carefully, as if gazing into his very spark, and as the silence went on, Ironhide was worried what the little mech would find. He wasn't worried the mechling wouldn't like him. No, he was worried the mech _would._ Ironhide was in no way gentle or nurturing. There was a reason he hadn't mated and sparked a child of his own.

As if reading his thoughts, little Orion suddenly broke out in a huge smile, showing off his lack of dentas, and squealed in delight as he wriggled in Sentinel's grasp, holding his little hands out to the black mech-wrecker. Seeing his ward smile, Sentinel grinned as well, turning his gaze to the horrified Ironhide.

"It would seem you have passed the final test," Sentinel stated. "Now, we simply must—"

"No," Ironhide interjected, rudely cutting off the prime without hesitation. Sentinel frowned as his gaze turned serious, and Orion's smile faded as he glanced up at his caretaker, obviously wondering why he wasn't being held by this fun-looking new mech.

"Ironhide, I understand your hesitation," Sentinel began, only to be cut off again.

"I don't believe you do, my prime. I am a military mech, not a nurturer. I fight for a living—"

"You _defend _for a living—"

"That does not change the fact. I am not part of the nurturing caste! I wouldn't even know the first thing about caring for a sparkling!" Ironhide argued, gesturing to the mechling in Sentinel's hands to accent the statement. Orion flinched a little at the movement, and to Ironhide's dismay, wide blue optics filled with coolant. The mechling gave a little hiccup, an overdramatic whimper, and then started crying.

Orion Pax didn't cry loudly. He didn't scream or whine. No, Orion only whimpered and gave sad little squeaks as silent tears ran down his chubby cheeks. Little antenna drooped as Orion turned and cuddled his face into the chest plate of whoever was holding him at the time. When Orion Pax cried, it broke sparks.

At least… when he fake cried, that was how he was… Ironhide didn't know the difference between fake crying and true crying, though — he didn't even know there _was_ such a thing as fake crying. All he knew was that his spark was filling up with a guilt that he had never experienced before.

"Frag — I mean, uh, rust!" Ironhide corrected at Sentinel's stern look. Ironhide winced a little before resting his thick hand on the little mechling's back, rubbing a little as he tried to calm the little sparkling, not even questioning why Sentinel wasn't doing anything to calm Orion as he whimpered and clicked sadly.

"Here, maybe he will calm down if you hold him," Sentinel suggested as he handed the sparkling over to Ironhide, who grimaced at the suggestion. Still, he allowed the tiny mech to be placed in his arms. Orion squeaked as he curled against Ironhide's chest, nuzzling his helm into the metal as he searched out the strong thrum of Ironhide's spark. Ironhide, for his part, simply held the little mech securely, his red optics widening in awe as the little mechling calmed and pressed into Ironhide's chest as his little whimpers turned into soft clicks. At that moment, Ironhide was in love. The little mechling in his arms was the sweetest thing he'd ever seen, and he'd do _anything_ to keep the little mech safe.

For the reader's benefit, it should be noted that in a few vorns, Ironhide would realize that Orion was far more intelligent than given credit for, and the mechling knew _exactly_ how to get what he wanted. Sentinel was likewise as conniving, though not necessarily in a bad way, and he knew that once Ironhide held the mechling, he would form a guardian bond with him simply because Ironhide had no other bonds, so his spark would be reaching out. It was probably why Ironhide subconsciously avoided sparklings and younglings: he knew, at a subconscious level at least, that he would form some sort of guardian bond with any younglings he came in contact with. Ironhide never stood a chance.

Sentinel watched with a smile as his ward relaxed into the larger mech's arms, and he relished the knowledge that he had succeeded. He had gotten another military mech out of the system, _and_ he had gained his ward the most loyal and protective bodyguard possible. That was why he had hoped to hire Ironhide: because he could be _sure_ that the black mech would keep his youngling safe. It was no secret that warriors were overprotective of their sparklings, of _anyone_ they formed a bond with. Ironhide would now do anything to keep his ward safe, and on top of that, the mech disliked being overly violent. This was _very good_, especially since the majority of those harassing the prime and his ward were article writers and members of the Circle who want to coo over the next prime. The last mech Sentinel had interviewed would have murdered any mech or femme that so much as _vented_ on the mechling. Ironhide was a bit more mellow than that.

"I am still uncertain about this, my prime," Ironhide hedged, gaining a smile from the mech in question.

"You will learn, Ironhide," Sentinel assured him. "Most is instinctual. I doubt you will have many troubles, and if you do, I have a femme from the nurturing caste in the palace at all times."

"I am not an emotional mech, Sentinel. I fear I will not be able to give this mechling the support he will need," Ironhide admitted. That was the guardian protocols kicking in. Ironhide would always want the best for his ward, even if that meant giving him away to a better caretaker. Sentinel shook his helm, though.

"That was my assumption when I first adopted him. Have your doubts, Ironhide, but do not allow them to interfere with your duties."

"I… Yes, sir."

"Good!" Sentinel all but chirped. "Now, I will call for a mech to show you to your chamber and give you a tour of the Abode. Will you need to return to Tarn for your belongings?"

"I — no. I have everything with me," Ironhide informed him. Sentinel nodded once as if confirming something, then he started for the door. Ironhide's spark stalled as he rushed after him. "My prime, what should I do with Orion?" Said sparkling squeaked at the sound of his designation, smiling up at his new bodyguard who wasn't looking at him.

"You are his new caretaker, Ironhide. He must stay with you," was Sentinel's response. "I assure you he will not mind the tour you will receive. He enjoys exploring our abode."

"But, Prime, I can't—"

"You _can_," Sentinel disagreed. He came to an abrupt halt and pivoted to face his new employee. "The job you have just received could have easily gone to another warrior. You will receive a paycheck, spending money for your outings, free energon, and a rent-free room to call your won. If you wish to turn down the job, you may do so by handing Orion to me and leaving."

Despite his arguments, Ironhide felt himself hold Orion closer, almost possessively, wrapping his arms around the sparkling and pressing him to his chest. Now that it was stated so succinctly… Ironhide wasn't sure he _wanted _to give up his new job. No, he wasn't used to dealing with children, but even Spire, the femme that had been in charge of femme quarters in Tarn, had stated he would make a good sire. Maybe… maybe he should give this job a chance.

"I… I will try. You cannot say I didn't warn you, though," Ironhide stated. Sentinel nodded again and turned to walk away.

"Kup will be here in a few. You may keep Orion until I have time for him."

With that, Sentinel walked away, leaving Ironhide with a happily clicking sparkling to care for. He felt a little hand tap at his armor and looked down at the blue and silver sparkling in his hands. Orion twittered at him, smiling widely as he stared into Ironhide's red optics.

"You got no idea what you just got us into," he informed the sparkling, who only squealed at the sound of the mech's voice. Ironhide grimaced. "And you don't talk yet, do you? How the Pit am I supposed to take care of you if you don't tell me how?" Orion's response was a chirp, and his attention returned to Ironhide's chest armor. He traced the scars curiously, examining the healed cuts and lacerations carefully before looking at his own unblemished chest with a questioning whirr.

"You gotta fight to get those, Orion," Ironhide stated, and the sparkling looked up at him excitedly at the sound of his name. Ironhide gave a weak smile at that. He had a feeling that his life was about to get far more interesting, though he couldn't decide whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"So, got yerself a job, huh?" Kup began as he strode up the hall to the odd pair. Orion squeaked in Ironhide's hands, and the pale green mech grinned down at the sparkling. "Ello, little mech," he cooed as he rubbed his fingers against the plating behind Orion's left antennae. The little mech twittered once before he relaxed against Ironhide's chest, a little purr rising from his engine.

"They're cute when they're that age," Kup stated with an affectionate smile. The smile grew back into that signature grin as his optics turned to Ironhide. "C'mon, I'll show you yer room."

Kup set a brisk pace, long legs striding with purpose as Ironhide hurried after him, holding Orion close to his chest as he jog-walked to keep up with Kup. The second Kup brought them into that familiar atrium, Ironhide's guardian protocols kick-started, and suddenly, Ironhide was extremely aware of every set of optics locked on the sparkling in his arms. The black warrior forced back battle protocols but allowed his battle computer to online and catalogue each passing mech and femme as a threat or not. Kup glanced back at him, noting how dark his red optics were becoming, and called out his name with a gesture to hurry up.

"Now, you'll learn about how our hierarchy works here pretty fast. The caste system don't mean slag in this place. Instead, yer position here gives you yer standing. Since you care for the future prime, you might as well be a blue-sight," Kup explained. Ironhide nodded at the statement, though he didn't really understand. They crossed through the lobby, and Kup led Ironhide back to the elegant stairs that stood across from the entrance.

"How will that affect me in public?" Ironhide questioned, trying to figure out how he was supposed to act around everyone. He was of the lowest caste. Surely the other bots working in the Abode would hate him if he tried to act superior.

"In public, yer a military mech who happens to take care of the future prime. Yer stoic, yer protective, and yer caring t'ward yer charge. T' be honest, you'll probably get a lot'a femmes tryin' ta get yer 'ttention, cuz there ain't nothin' they like more th'n a rugged red-sight that's good with sparklin's."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Ironhide mumbled.

"You should. This ain't an easy job, and you got yer work cut out for ya. Jus' don't be 'fraid ta ask questions. Ev'n if they don't like you, they'll answer for Orion's sake," Kup responded easily. He slowed then, stopping in front of a door that was connected to the main hallway. Strange. Ironhide had expected to be housed in one of the lower levels, and he mentioned as much to Kup. The other mech snorted.

"Yer room is Orion's room, too. This room 'as been held for orns in wait of the new bodyguard," Kup stated as he entered the code into the keypad. The door hissed open, startling little Orion and gaining the mechling's full attention as Kup and Ironhide stepped into the room.

It was huge, far larger than any room Ironhide had ever _seen_. The room appeared to be split down the middle. The right half of it was much like the nursery Ironhide had been introduced to Orion in, and the other half was obviously a lavish berthroom for an adult. Ironhide took in the high-class berth that had a soft metal top rather than a simple titanium flat top. He took in the extra furniture — comfortable chairs, a sofa, and a short table – that he never had before. On that short table was an energon dispenser, giving him unlimited access to energon rather than daily rations that military caste mechs were supposed to be limited to. Shelves were set up with a few datapads, and there were open spots where he could put holocubes with photos. There was a desk with a hover chair situated in the far right corner. All things that he had never experienced.

Suddenly, this job was far more overwhelming. He wasn't built for this. He wasn't accustomed to such finery, such useless trivialities that decorated his room. He had never _seen_ a berth that was not hard and immobile, much less recharged on one. He had never had access to a library, much less had a miniature one in his berthroom. Even such a small collection of datas would be considered illegal if they were found in his housing unit!

Most of all, he wasn't created to care for a sparkling. He wasn't a member of the nurturing caste. He had no prior experience with younglings other than watching from afar, smiling at their antics. He had no way of knowing how to care for the mech, how to know what the mechling needed when he needed it. What if he hurt him on accident? What if he fed him something wrong? What if—

"Yer gonna glitch if you don't calm down," Kup noted from afar. Ironhide jolted and turned his attention to the mech beside him. "Yer freaking him out."

"What?" Ironhide asked. Then he followed Kup's gaze to the sparkling who was staring up at him with concerned optics. Seeing that his new guardian was gazing at him, Orion squeaked happily at the red-opticed mech.

"I know it's a lot to take in, bu'cha gotta adapt. Ya got the guardian bond with the little one to guide ya—"

"Guardian bond?" Ironhide repeated, but Kup spoke over him.

"And you'll learn to use it. Any problems ya have c'n be solved by Lunarsprite. She's his nurturer." The knowledge that Sentinel had somebot from the nurturing guild helping made him feel far more comfortable. He was about to ask Kup about Lunarsprite when the mech stepped back, his red optics dimming as he took a comm. "Frag. I gotta go. Relax in here fer a while. I gotta take care of s'me business real fast."

And he was gone. Ironhide stared at the door the Kup left through, then turned his attention to the sparkling in his hands. Orion had made himself comfortable against Ironhide's chassis and was beginning to doze. His left hand was in his mouth, and his right held one of Ironhide's armor plates firmly. His blue optics steadily grew dimmer, and Ironhide decided to take a file from Kup's datascript, rubbing one hand just behind Orion's audial antenna. The little mech's optics offlined completely, and he gave a light purr as his systems cycled into recharge.

As Ironhide made his way over to the sofa in the center of his half of the room, he found himself thinking that this might not be as bad as he expected. It would certainly be a learning experience, but maybe it wasn't something he needed to be afraid of. Orion Pax would someday rule Cybertron with the help of the Senate and the Lord Protectorate, and Ironhide would be there to ensure that he was safe every step of the way. It wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it.

And in that moment, as little Orion slept, he gained his most loyal follower and the mech that would grow to be his closest friend. He would always be Ironhide's little mech.

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Cute, no? I will be replying to reviews in PMs in this story to see how that goes. Hope you guys liked it.


	2. Pilot: Soundwave

1) I've been having so much fun with this one. I've never really touched on Soundwave and Blaster's past, so this is gonna be fun for me.

2) So school starts on Monday. I doubt my update schedule will change too much seeing as I don't really have one. For those of you hearing this for the first time, I have abolished all updates schedules for all stories to keep away all stress. I update whatever I want whenever I want, mainly because my muse flits from one story to another. I _will_ try to get the next chapter of Bring Me Peace out ASAP

3) I know for a fact I didn't send replies to everyone, but I can't figure out who I _did _send replies to. For those of you who didn't get replies, i apologize profusely. I am accustomed to replying at the bottom of a fic, and I am still learning how to review via PM without skipping anyone. Thank you for your understanding, and if you had a question, please resubmit it, and I will hopefully do this reply thing better this chapter.

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**Pilot: Soundwave**

10,727 words

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"You've got to be kidding me! You've been interviewing bot after bot! How the frag did you find a bodyguard first?"

"Well, I would assume it was because I was actually _proactive_ in my search for a guardian for Orion. Have you even interviewed a single bot?"

"Oh, don't act all snitty—"

"I was not—"

"I'll have you know that I have found the _perfect_ candidate for Megatron's bodyguard."

"Uh-huh." Disbelief oozed from the mech's voice.

"I _have!_ Primus, I will never know how you came to believe me to be so irresponsible!"

"It was quite easy to—"

"Don't—!"

"You know contractions are quite unbecoming of a noble mech…"

"Oh, stuff it up your aft, Sentinel. We both know nobody cares how I talk. You're the one that has to blow fluff up the Senate's tailpipes with fancy words. I just have to tell them who I'm blowing up."

"That is… rather crude, Killswitch, and quite degrading of both of our duties."

"Frag that. We both know neither of us applied for these jobs. Pit, I recall playing with my friends as a youngling before the Elite Guard showed up at my house and informed my creators in no small words that I was to be the next lord protectorate. I'm glad Megatron won't have to go through that."

"I hardly see how raising the mechling in an army is superior to experiencing a loving family for at least a short time of the sparkling's life."

"You assume that my military base is a dark place of pessimism, hate, and fear. I can assure that it's not. Last time you visited, you had a blast! You even dropped a few contractions!"

"I hardly see how getting overcharged every cycle is good for the mechling's upbringing. Oh, and might I take this moment to say that Orion has never seen me overcharged? Ever?"

"You never struck me as the kind of mech to rub stuff in, but I guess every mech can surprise another."

"You would not be subject to such teasing if you did not give such useful ammo."

"I live life how I can. I work hard; I party hard. It's the military life. Maybe if you came to _my_ parties instead of those fancy, high-caste _soirees,_ you wouldn't be such a stiff_."_

"Such a _what?"_

"A stiff. Ah, sorry. Low-caste term. My bad."

"'Your _bad?'"_

"My mistake, I mean."

"Killswitch… as _riveting_ as this conversation is, I have work to attend to, and I am fairly certain Ironhide will be messaging me relatively soon when Orion next processes waste."

"Ah, yes. A military mech's hardest battle: the first time his sparkling ejects waste. I remember it well."

"Yes. I believe you had a harder time, though. I was blessed with a nurturing-caste femme when I first retrieved Orion. You had to figure everything out on your own."

"Well, I had my army."

"Which means your medic took care of the child when you were confused."

"Ah, yes. Clinique did her fair share of sparklingsitting when Megatron decided to empty his tank all over my chest."

"That was… very disgusting, and I could have easily went through my life without that mental picture plastered across my central processor."

"Aw, c'mon, Sentinel. You can't deny it happened to you before, too!"

"I am dropping this communication line." This was said rather abruptly. Obviously, this was not something that the other mech felt like talking about. "_Please_ find a mech to care for Megatron soon. He cannot stay beside you as you go into battle."

"I think he'd have fun riding in a battle cruiser. And I already _have _someone. I already told you that!"

"Very well, then. The best of luck training the poor bot."

"The guy's already settling in. He's _ecstatic_ about this new job."

"Good. I shall see you and this new mech at the Senate's soiree, then?"

"Unfortunately."

"Very well then. Goodbye."

The second Sentinel's face disappeared from the screen, Killswitch let his upper half fall overdramatically onto the console. His head hit the keys, bringing up a slew of random commands on the otherwise blue screen, and he gave a low sigh. He was totally and utterly screwed. There was simply no other way of putting it.

Two decaorns ago, he and Sentinel had decided that it was time to get the two future "rulers" — more like figureheads, if one asked Killswitch — of Cybertron bodyguards/caretakers to protect them as their mentors worked. Sentinel had started out by posting a bulletin in the _Iaconian Times_ newsdata as well as paying three different high-society public comms and a single general public comm to report the job offer. That first orn, he had gotten plenty of job requests; however, most of them were unfit for the job, either because they were only in it for the money and prestige or they had no defense capabilities, something that was important for this job.

That first orn, Killswitch had laughed his head off, watching from the safety of his fortress in Kolkular, Kaon as Sentinel whined in the most undignified manner about the idiot bots that had applied for the job. He had been overlooking the training of a few new recruits in the Defense Force and wasn't required to go back to Iacon for a good decaorn, and even then, he would only have to be there for an orn, maybe two at the most. He only went to Iacon when absolutely necessary. Little Megatron, just out of his newspark frame, had enjoyed his time in Kolkular, being passed around to various off-duty mechs and femmes.

You see, unlike the stuffy mechs he was forced to deal with in Iacon, Killswitch knew that Megatron was safe with the military mechs that served under him. While the upper-crust of Cybertron believed these red-opticed mechs to be emotionless monsters, Killswitch knew that these mechs cared a great deal for the little mech that would one day lead them into battle. Having seen their care for Megatron, Killswitch was sometimes surprised when an oblivious blue-opticed bot would comment on a warrior's lack of emotion. When he defended his mechs, the upper-crust's disbelief just didn't make sense to him, and he knew that was because he actually spent time with his mechs and knew them. Still, though, it was obvious they cared for the sparkling. Pit, they worked out a system for who would sparklingsit while Killswitch took care of official business. The mechs knew who Megatron could be given to if something happened, and if a mech didn't think he could handle dealing with the sparkling, they would simply observe from afar instead of signing up to care for him during their off-cycle. Most of the mechs didn't mind carrying him around, though.

Needless to say, Killswitch didn't feel that finding a single particular bodyguard and/or caretaker for Megatron was a necessity. He could easily give Megatron to his Second-in-Command and let the mechling be passed around every cycle. The sparklet would be perfectly happy, and his mechs would be given responsibility for a cycle. He never had to worry about Megatron being lost, mistreated, or kidnapped. Military caste mechs were the most protective caretakers after Seekers.

And thus had begun the procrastination of the vorn.

Do not assume Killswitch was avoiding the task. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to get Megatron a full-time guardian that would keep him with him at all times and by extension lower the times during the day when Killswitch would see him... Okay… well, maybe that _was_ part of the reason, because when it came down to it, Killswitch really loved his little ward. Megatron was quite the bundle of love and giggles, and he never minded showing that smile to any mech or femme that wanted to give him attention. Killswitch already missed him any time the thought of a guardian came to his processor.

The main problem Killswitch faced with searching for a new guardian was finding time _to_ look for a suitable guardian, and of course, finding someone brave enough to come visit him for an interview. He lived in Kaon, the bottom of Cybertron in both literal and figurative senses. The city-state was home to the Forge, the largest "underground" pit fighting arena and home to the most gruesome fighting circuit on Cybertron. The majority of the bots living there were warriors, servants, and a large section of the mining community. A few low-on-their-luck upper-caste bots lived there as well: a few tradesmechs, a low-end medic here and there, a nurturer to care miner sparklings while the mechs mined and their femme sparkmates worked to help keep their family units afloat. It wasn't the kind of place a high-end caretaker was going to want to visit. Of course, he had taken Megatron on his trip to Iacon for the protectorate's decaornly visit to the prime, and he had put out an advertisement before his arrival. Unfortunately, he faced the same problem as Sentinel.

Then, of course, there was work. It seemed like there was always something to do whenever he finally turned his attention to the guardian problem – because it _was_ becoming a problem. Cybertronian relationships with Arbotia a few light years away from Cybertron were beginning to diminish, and the manufacturing planet was beginning to make threats on Cybertron's prime. That wasn't something Killswitch could take lightly. It seemed like he was always either in a meeting to go to or troops to train or an armada to inspect, and while he didn't mind doing his job, it certainly took up all his time.

Killswitch gave a low sigh as he sat up from the console, no doubt accidentally sending out a few computer commands that he didn't particularly mean to, but he ignored that in favor of slouching in his chair.

"So…" came a low voice from a console near the back of the communication room. Killswitch sat up enough in his chair to swivel it around to face his Second-in-Command, a large red mech who currently had his face focused rather studiously on the screen and console before him. Killswitch knew that this was probably more to hide his amused expression from his commander than to do actual work. "Who's the lucky mech that's gonna sparklingsit?" Yes, there was a rather acute bit of laughter in Strife's voice. Killswitch glared at him SiC, a mech who knew that the protectorate hadn't had a chance to interview anyone.

"You're not funny, frag-head," Killswitch snapped rather childishly. Strife only snorted before swiveling his chair to face his commander.

"You may be in luck, Commander," he stated. Killswitch's red optics brightened a little, and he let a hopeful smile rise to his lips. That smile dropped into a scowl at Strife's next statement. "Maybe if Sentinel Prime likes Ironhide enough, he'll let you borrow the mech to figure out what you're looking for in a guardian."

"Frag you, unhelpful slagger," Killswitch grumbled as he rose to his pedes. He strode to the door, his shoulders held back proudly and his long strides confident. There was no denying that Killswitch had the bearing of the lord protectorate, even if he didn't really look or act the part. Killswitch was a piece of work, completely opposite of his predecessor. Battlework had been a bulky mech with a low, guttural voice, harsh red optics, very noticeable scars, and a quick temper. Killswitch's memories drew a picture of a mean mentor that forced him to learn how to fight at a young age and refused to let him have any friends. He said that friends were distractions, that befriending those below him would only open him up to betrayal. Battlework had been just as strict on his soldiers, controlling them even down to how they could spend their free time. It had made many of his soldiers resent him, and as such, they had sneaked a young Killswitch out to have fun whenever they could, no matter the consequences. Pissing off Battlework was apparently worth it.

Killswitch was, as mention above, completely opposite. The current protectorate was tall and lanky, and unlike his predecessor, his black paint was always polished and buffed instead of battleworn and scuffed "like a true military mech's would be." The mech was laid back and took joy in the simple things of life. He was kind to his underlings and enjoyed a party as much as they. His garnet red optics were light with laughter most of the time, and even when he was serious, his optics still held that gentleness that Battlework had never been able to manage. Of course, unlike his mentor, Killswitch loved using his optics on the femmes he dealt with.

Hence how he ended up with Megatron…

The femme had been sparked by her past sparkmate, a mech that had died protecting them from thieves. She had had the sparkling but knew she couldn't support him. She worked as a bar femme during the solar cycle, then took a mech during the first lunar cycle to temporarily rid herself of the hole in her spark that was slowly pulling her into darkness after her sparkmate. Killswitch had been one of the suitors she had taken, and of course, he had known nothing about her having a sparkling until he heard a cry from another room of the small housing unit shortly after their business was conducted. The little black and gray sparkling mech had been starving, and the femme hadn't been able to find the mercy in her broken spark to feed him that solar cycle. When Killswitch had asked her about the mechling, about why she wasn't leaving to comfort him, she had made some sort of flippant statement about how he would shut up eventually. Needless to say, Killswitch had taken custody of the sparkling without much thought.

Then, after he had fed the sparkling some low-grade from his medic, a femme designated Clinique, his logic center had caught up with his actions. He had no time for a sparkling! As much as he enjoyed spending time with Sentinel's new sparkling, Orion, he didn't have much desire for a successor yet. He was a good ninety vorns younger than Sentinel after all, and he had no idea how to care for a sparkling or even how he would _explain_ said sparkling. He knew the Senate would not take kindly to him giving charity to such lower-caste bots.

It had been Clinique that had inadvertently come to his rescue, though.

"_So is this to be our next protectorate?"_

"_Clin, you _know_ I don't need a successor yet."_

"_Can you say that for sure? Can you guarantee you will not fall in battle in two solar cycles? Listen to your spark, Killswitch. You do not need the guidance of the primes to know that this little mech needs you."_

He had been about to argue, but the sparkling in his hands suddenly opened his too-big optics and gazed up at the protectorate with such a look of adoration, and just like that, every argument against the mech disappeared. Killswitch completed the creator bond in that very second, and little Megatron, as he was named, became the light of his life. He told the Senate that his Matrix of Protection had led him to the mechling, a necessary lie that the Senate had accepted without complaint. After all, Killswitch was their personal favorite because he didn't feel the need to question the caste system like Sentinel did.

'_How far we have come,'_ Killswitch thought to himself as his processor went back over those first vorns. Megatron had single-handed stolen the sparks of almost every mech in his army, then he had stolen the sparks of all the blue-sight Elitists in Iacon. Killswitch always found it funny that the upper-crust of Cybertron loved himself and Megatron – and sometimes his SiC and TiC – yet they thought every other warrior-caste mech was a monster.

"Opi!" a loud squeal broke through his thoughts, and Killswitch focused on the world around him. Apparently, his mindless walking had brought him to the recreation room. The rec room was where bots came to relax after a long shift. One half of the room was nothing but tables and chairs, places where bots could talk and unwind at the end of a solar cycle. The other half was for entertainment. There was a holoscreen against the wall for those lunar cycles when mechs and femmes felt like watching the newest holoadaption – Killswitch always came home with at least fifteen new datafiles for the holoscreen after a trip to Iacon – and a huge couch that around ten mechs and femmes could squeeze onto if they sat on the top and the armrests.

The rec room was only halfway-filled this particular solar cycle. A lot of mechs had recently been assigned more shifts due to the Arbotia threat. The holoscreen was playing an action flick about a blue caste femme who is running away from a tradesmech that wants to kill her for her fortune. She's lucky that she happened to run into a handsome elite mech that knew how to shoot perfectly and fight well with a blade. Needless to say, the bots watching the flick scoffed a lot.

Megatron was currently sitting on a table near the middle of the room, an artist's datapad on the table in front of him, but his attention was focused on his surrogate creator. Three of the four seats at the table were taken up by Killswitch's officers. Boombomber, his demolitions expert, was nursing a cube of high grade as he slouched comfortably in his chair. Across from him was Terretan, his weapons specialist, and sitting beside Terretan was his sparkmate, Clinique. Their two chairs were nearly touching, giving Clinique the ability to lean against her bulky sparkmate.

"Hello, my spark," Killswitch cooed. He walked to the table in four long strides and scooped up his squealing sparkling without hesitation. Megatron, ever delighted to see his mech creator, twittered and chirped happily, flailing his little arms and legs cutely as his sire held him above his helm. Little winglets fluttered when the cool air from the vent above them sifted over them, and Megatron squealed again at the funny feeling. "How's he been?" Killswitch directed his question toward Clinique as he settled Megatron against his chest. The little mech chirped once more before settling down, setting his audio receptor against Killswitch's chest to hear his spark. Acting on instinct, Killswitch shifted Megatron over to the right to where his spark had been moved after a shot had gotten dangerously close to offlining him. His strong spark now resided just below his right collar strut.

"Let's just say we don't look forward to when he can move on his own," Terretan spoke up before his sparkmate could. Clinique rolled her optics and smiled at Killswitch.

"He was perfect, as always, the little Primus-sent primelet he is." Killswitch turned his attention to the little bundle of wires in his arms with a smile. Megatron had found Killswitch's sparkbeat and was starting to doze by the calming sound of it, little hands holding the edges of his chest armor tightly.

"Have you made any progress on the guardian situation?" Clinique questioned, blue optics locked on the sparkling as well. She saw Killswitch's grimace and mentally answered her own question before he spoke.

"No," the protectorate stated grimly. "But I will," he added, his voice and expression holding determination. Clinique looked less convinced.

"Best of luck to you, my lord," she said, though her voice told the lanky mech that she had little faith in him. A glance at Terretan and Boombomber showed that they likewise doubted his ability to find a guardian for the sparkling in his arms. He felt a rare scowl rising to his face at his underlings' lack of support. No matter. He'd show _them_ that he could do this.

**::Lord Protector, you are needed in meeting hall delta:: -Strife, Cybertronian Defense Force SiC**

**::Why…?:: -High Lord Protectorate Killswitch **

Even as Killswitch sent the comm. message, he was walking out of the rec room, moving briskly in the direction of the meeting rooms. Meeting hall delta was actually the largest conference room in the whole Kolkular base, and he couldn't recall planning a meeting that would garner such a large space.

**::The Kaonian Youth Initiative has been completed:: -Strife, Cybertronian Defense Force SiC**

Killswitch blinked, actually pausing in his steps as he thought that last statement through.

**::**_**Really**_**? And there were enough bots to fill meeting hall **_**delta**_**?:: -High Lord Protectorate Killswitch**

**::Definitely enough potential in here:: -Strife, Cybertronian Defense Force SiC**

**::Oh:: **Killswitch started walking again. **::Well, I am on my way:: -High Lord Protectorate Killswitch**

It had been a pleasant surprise, the Initiative's initial turnout. The Kaonian Youth Initiative was actually Strife's metaphorical sparkling created after a trip to the Forge. Strife had been surprised and horrified to see that younglings were being trained in the Forge, brought up to kill the very younglings they played with. Yes, Strife had _known_ that this was common practice, but something about _seeing_ a youngling battling another had made him sick to his tank. Yes, he understood that violence was hardwired into every red-opticed mech or femme to some degree, but for somebot to exacerbate that programming for money…

Hence, the KYI was born. The Initiative would allow young mechs to go through a series of physical tests that would give them a place in Academy of Military Combat and Tactics, which was Killswitch's metaphorical sparkling. Much like Sentinel and Strife, Killswitch wanted to get young military bots off the streets and give them purpose in life. If Sentinel was the guardian of the upper castes, the one who made sure those created in comfort remained safe and happy, then Killswitch was the guardian of the lower castes, the one who made sure those created in poverty were given a chance at life and happiness. So many military and servant caste bots lived lives of violence, worry, and disgrace because they weren't given any other options. Killswitch had hoped that his new academy would mirror the Iaconian Academy of Science and Technology.

Of course, these two creations were still in their beginning stages, and Killswitch had yet to hire instructors for his newly built academy. Even so, though, the people of Kaon, which was where the academy had been built, were ecstatic about the potential and the unspoken promise such a building brought. It was obvious through this new structural addition that Killswitch was actually looking out for his people and actively seeking ways to better their lives. It made the lower castes ever the more loyal to him.

Killswitch arrived at meeting hall delta, and he situated Megatron more comfortably against his chest as he sent a wireless signal to the door. It opened with a pneumonic hiss, startling poor Megatron and gaining a squeak of surprise from the sparkling, who glared at the now open door as if to chastise it for not warning him before making any noise. Killswitch snorted at his charge, which, of course, brought Megatron's attention back to him. The silver sparkling looked up at Killswitch with a wide, open-mouth smile, red optics glinting happily when his surrogate creator smiled back at him. With his joyful exchange finished, Megatron allowed his helm to drop back against Killswithc's chest, nuzzling the metal there a bit as he listened in to the larger mechs thrumming spark.

Killswitch strode into the room, his optics still on Megatron as he spoke. "I have arrived, Strife. Now introduce me to these…" Killswitch trailed off as he glanced up. Meeting hall delta was a huge room that held a single table with eighty-four chairs. The room had been created during the command of Battlework, a mech who, in the name of expediency and paranoia, demanded that the commander, second-in-command, and third-in-command of every division in his army be present during meetings of any sort. Personally, Killswitch thought that was overkill, mainly because he knew his mechs would get their jobs done and sometimes the jobs of those beneath them, too. Needless to say, Killswitch had only used the room twice in his two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight vorn career, and both of those times had been because the Senate had visited and (of course) brought with them a perpetual sea of upper-caste idiots. Both times had been exhausting for poor Killswitch, who had to play peacekeeper on both sides of the caste system, trying to keep his soldiers from attacking some ignorant blue-sight while keeping Elitists from being offended by his soldiers' many snubs. He wasn't looking forward to next vorn when it was time for _another_ visit from the Senate.

Killswitch looked around the room, wondering if he had missed something, then his focus returned to the far end of the table where Strife and two nearly identical youngling mechs of different ages were seated. Killswitch gave Strife a decidedly unimpressed look as he strode across the room, his long legs eating up the extreme distance between the door and the far end of the table. As he moved in their direction, Killswitch glanced at the two mechlings, taking note that the younger one appeared to grow more and more nervous as he got closer and the other remained stoic and calm.

They were both cassette holders, Killswitch could see, evidenced by the single opaque armor plates on their chest. A normal mech's chest split down the middle so that both side could open symmetrically. These two mechs would have chest plates that would open downward. Behind that armor would be a holding area where cassettes, which were tiny Cybertronians created by a split in the host cassette holder's spark, would sleep and refuel. Killswitch had only ever met one other cassette holder, a mech by the name of Blacksound. He had been a fascinating mech from Helix, a city-state known for parties, clubs, and all-around fun inhabitants. It was mostly populated by the white-opticed entertainment-caste bots proficient in many languages and talents, but everyone was treated equally there. That was one of the main reasons that so many liked to visit that city: if someone else discriminated against you, you could rest assured that a Helixan would stand up for you, fight for you, and even run the mech from the town and banish him from future visits. Helixans, after all, protected everyone and didn't mind teaming up to help the underdog, assuming said underdog _deserved_ such assistance.

The two mechs before him didn't appear to be Helixan; rather, only one of them appeared as such. The younger – and more nervous – of the two was painted a bright red with gray legs. The chest armor that made up his cassette holder was an opaque yellow that faded into a bright, non-translucent yellow at the edges. His helm was red as well, designed with twin antennae rising up on both sides, and his faceplates were the same dull gray as his legs. What surprised Killswitch – and brought back his thoughts of these mechs being native to Helix – were the youngster's white entertainer optics. Optics that were locked on him as he came to a stop just in front of them.

Both mechs were seated to the left of the end chair that stood at the foot of the table. Strife was seated on the right, leaving the base chair empty for Killswitch. The military commander remained standing behind Strife, though, as he focused his attention on the other mechling.

The older mechling could pass as a Helixan with his frame type, but his paintjob cancelled out that chance. The dark paint was obviously that of a low-class miliary mech. The mechling's frame was covered by navy blue armor, the only exception being his gray legs. The chest armor over his cassette hold was a plain opaque gray, and Killswitch got the impression that he had given all the "fun colored" paint to his younger sibling to keep him happy. Perhaps that was how he spoiled the younger one, gave him what little he could spare. Killswitch was willing to be that this older sibling likely sacrificed quite a bit for the younger, and he was certain the younger was probably happy with anything the older could part with. His helm lacked the antennae his brother had, the only adornment on his being a crest on his forehelm.

As Killswitch watched him, Soundwave's red optics stared back as if listening into his thoughts while his little brother appeared to be growing more anxious at the prolonged inspection. Killswitch understood the younger mech's edginess. He had felt the same way more than six thousand vorns ago when Battlework had stared him down, a common miner's son that had been forced into such a high position of succession. He could remember staring into Battlework's harsh, red optics, wondering what this mech was going to do to him. He could recall refusing to say a word because this mech was the High Lord Protectorate, and he deserved Killswitch's respect, even if he had torn him away from everything he knew and loved. Killswitch wondered if that was what was going through the little red mech's mind

"So… only two successful applicants," Killswitch drawled as he seated himself at the foot of the table. The navy blue mechling straightened in his seat at Killswitch's words, and the red mechling, seeing his brother's action, attempted to do the same, though the effect was ruined by his fidgeting.

"It would appear so," Strife stated as he held out two datapads to his leader. "Here's the stats." Killswitch gave Strife a sarcastic look, jerking his head down to the snoozing sparkling in his hands. Strife grinned back at him, unrepentant. "I can take the future protector off your hands," he offered magnanimously. Killswitch resisted the urge to roll his optics as he lifted Megatron away from his chest, and he audibly sighed when Megatron's optics lit up brightly at the simple movement.

"Please, don't," Killswitch requested flatly of the little sparkling when he saw Megatron's faceplates scrunch up in irritation. The sparkling either ignored him or didn't understand his words, though the latter was most likely. The only thing little Megatron cared about was the fact that he was irritated. He had been taking a nap! How dare his opi move him! He let out a short string of irritated squeaks at his creator who simply rolled his optics at the mechlet's rather famous temper. Every military mech in the base knew better than to interrupt Megatron's nap or refueling. Strife took the mechling into his hands and rested him against his broad, red chest, rubbing his fingers up and down the mechling's back, taking a moment every now and again to rub lightly at the sparkling's developing wing nubs in an attempt to calm the sparkling down.

In the end, it was the little red mechling that ultimately calmed the future protector by saying in an awed voice, "_Tha's_ the futuh p'tectuh?"

All optics turned to the younger mech, who ducked down a little at the attention. The older, navy mechling responded to the mechling's movements by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Strife was about to respond when Megatron suddenly gave a loud chirp. A glance at the sparkling showed him twisting in Strife's hands, his little hands pushing against the SiC's chest as leverage as he stared at the two mechlings across the table. All of the sudden, a wide smile lit the sparkling's face, and he squealed loudly as he held a single arm out to the mechs across the table from him.

"No, Megatron," were Strife's only words. Megatron squeaked again, looking up at the mech his opi always talked to. Strife wasn't one of Megatron's particular favorites – that title went to Havok and Streettalk, a warrior and a special operations agent, respectively – but Strife always seemed to be around. Normally, the mech was willing to go with what he wanted, but this new word… this "no" word… it was beginning to be used more commonly, and Megatron wasn't so sure he liked this new word.

Megatron's growing temper went unnoticed as attention moved back to Killswitch, who was now speaking as he glanced through the datapads in his hands. "So, Soundwave and Blaster… Quite impressive scores in communications and leadership. It looks like you decimated your competition, Soundwave. It appears you did just as well for your age, Blaster…" Killswitch hummed as he scrolled through the various scores and grades, feeling his optics widen along with his grin as he checked everything through. With his decision set, Killswitch set the two datapads down.

"When we set up this program, we didn't expect for it to be so successful," Killswitch began. He ignored Strife's mumbled, "Speak for yourself," as he continued, "You two have actually given me faith that we can succeed at this. Of course—"

Killswitch was cut off by a furious shriek, and all attention focused on the irate sparkling in Strife's arms. Megatron was currently scowling up at the mech holding him, and his little hand was still reaching in Soundwave and Blaster's direction. When he didn't get a response, Megatron gave an angry squeak, as if demanding why he wasn't being obeyed. He wanted to meet these new mechlings – the first mechlings, in fact, that he had seen in a long time that we fairly close to his age – and Strife was keeping him from meeting his new friends. Of course, little Megatron had met younglings before, Orion Pax being a good example, yet none of them were consistent in their appearances, and Megatron didn't remember them. All he knew was that these new bots were smaller than the other bots he always played with, and that made them fun.

"I think he'th gonna cwy," Blaster informed them, and indeed, Megatron's optics were beginning to fill up, a herald to what Killswitch was sure would be a fantastic temper tantrum. As luck would have it, the stoic mechling, Soundwave, stepped in before that could happen.

"Crying: illogical. Action will not solve current dilemma." All heads swiveled to face the mechling who had spoken, the exception being Blaster, who was still focused on the sparkling. Soundwave had spoken in a monotone voice, a vocal pattern that Killswitch had never heard before, but hearing it now, he could discern why the two brothers had different colored optics. Soundwave's voice held a sense of melody, a musical undernote that came in a Helixan frame; however, that tone was tempered by the gruff monotone found commonly in Kaonian miners who couldn't afford high-priced vocal processors to replace the ones they were created with as most military bots did.

Blaster and Soundwave were the products of a cross-caste relationship, likely featuring a military bot and an entertainer from Helix. After all, a Helixan would have no constraints bonding with a military bot. Everyone was the same in their optics. The personal history of the two younglings before him was none of his business, though.

What concerned him was the fact that Megatron went stiff at the sound of Soundwave's voice and was currently staring at the mechling with something akin to awe. His optics were quickly drying up as curiosity took place of irritation, and Megatron reached out again to the other mechling. Strife glanced up at Killswitch, who gave a barely perceptible nod without taking his optics off Megatron. Strife set Megatron on the table on his stomach facing Soundwave, and the sparkling immediately started his attempts at moving.

Megatron was still working on his coordination at the moment, a fact that was not particularly surprising as he was only just out of his newspark frame. His arms and legs weren't strong enough to hold him even if he _had_ figured out how to get them under his body, but what he lacked in strength and coordination, he made up for in determination. Megatron's wide red optics stayed locked on Soundwave as he attempted to _will_ himself into the older mechling's arms. Little hands smacked the table, and little feet kicked while winglets fluttered, yet Megatron remained where he was, much to his frustration. He whirred angrily at his inabilities as he looked at Soundwave, who was on _the other side of the table._ Where were all the big bots that always helped him move? Couldn't they see he was stuck here?

"I think he'th funny," Blaster stated with a giggle, then he yelped when Soundwave smacked him for his rude comment. "Whaaat? 'E _ith_," the younger whined.

"Apologies. Blaster: unable to restrain glossa," Soundwave stated by way of apology. Killswitch shook his helm.

"It's not a problem," he stated, sending the younger, red mech a small smile which gained a nervous grin from the younger mechling. Megatron gave a high-pitched whine from the table top, and Soundwave finally reached over and lifted the sparkling up. Megatron gave a loud squeal of approval as Soundwave held him firmly but away from his body. Megatron frowned at this, not appreciating being held like a diseased doll.

"You gotta hold him against your chest," Strife informed him. Soundwave showed emotion briefly through a small frown before his face went carefully blank again.

"Position pointless. Megatron: unable to hear Soundwave's spark. Soundwave's spark: behind cassette chamber." Despite this statement, Soundwave allowed the mechling to rest up against his chassis. Megatron squeaked his happiness and shifted slightly, instinctually searching out the sound of the older mech's sparkthrum. As Soundwave said, though, he didn't find it. Megatron gave a confused whistle as he looked up at the red-opticed mech holding him. Soundwave looked down at the mechling and stated blandly, "Soundwave informed others of outcome." Megatron simply stared at him with a wide smile before nuzzling his helm into the mech's chest.

It was that moment when Killswitch was hit with the newest scheme. He glanced back through the older brother's stats with a growing grin. Soundwave was a sub-adult youngling, meaning that he was fairly close to upgrading to his final frame. A glance at Blaster's datafile showed that he was a mid-youngling, a mere child in Cybertronian eyes. Soundwave must have worked in the Forge because his battle stats were through the roof, and his scars would support such an argument, as well. He worked well with a blade, but preferred distance weapons like spears. He was gentle-natured and mildly protective. When faced with a hostage situation, he succeeded in rescuing the hostage and eliminating the foe.

Primus had obviously sent this mech to solve his problem.

"You have most certainly passed, and I will happily accept you into my ranks," Killswitch announced.

"Soundwave: not a sparklingsitter." Well… _that_ was unexpected. Killswitch narrowed his optics when he remembered an observation from earlier: Soundwave had watched him as if deciphering his very thoughts.

"A telepath?" Strife had apparently reached the same conclusion Killswitch had.

"No' bad though!' Blaster was quick to jump to his brother's defense, gaining a startled squeak from Megatron. "Thoun'wave onwy doth it whenevuh 'e neeth ta!"

"We were not accusing him, young one," Killswitch stated, carefully copying Sentinel's comforting tone. Sentinel was always better with mid-aged younglings than Killswitch was. The protectorate could deal with sparklings, sub-adults, and adults. The in-between was difficult for him, though. It apparently worked as Blaster sat back down. Seeing that the youngster was calming down, Killswitch turned his attention back to Soundwave.

"Megatron needs a bodyguard/caretaker. A dispute with Arbotia has forced my attention elsewhere, and I need to know that he will be safe if ever I need to lead my mechs into battle. I understand that you desire a spot in the Academy, but I offer you something better. You and your brother will be given free room and board with the given luxuries of a mech guarding the future protectorate. You will both receive lessons in language, reading and writing, battle tactics and strategies, politics… the works. The guardian of a future protectorate must be educated themselves.

"In addition to that, you will learn how to defend yourself and your charge with all kinds of weapons, as well as learning how to use unlikely objects as weapons in the event you have no access to a personal weapon. Once Megatron has grown, you will retain a high position in this army, and depending on your relationship with him, you may end up as an officer once he takes command." Killswitch leveled the navy blue mech with a serious look. "The choice, of course, is yours."

There was silence after that, Soundwave obviously thinking the offer over and likely sifting over the electrical impulses that allowed him to read Killswitch's mind. Megatron pushed away from Soundwave's chest when Killswitch went silent, trying to decipher what this new silence meant. Nobody was looking at him, each bot staring at Soundwave, instead. Megatron whistled softly in the silence, not quite sure what to make of this lack of noise. He was rarely in a silent place – a military base was always active, after all – and usually silence meant it was time for him to recharge. But that wasn't right, because when he finally fell completely offline, Killswitch normally shifted him smoothly into his hold. He couldn't move him too early, though, because Megatron had a habit of waking up and kicking the soft walls of his hold whenever he wanted to be held instead.

Maybe they were waiting for him to fall into recharge… Yes, that had to be it! Megatron clicked a few times to himself, mildly disgruntled by the lack of spark sound from his newest perch, and let his body relax, systems whirring as they slowed.

The two eldest mechs felt their optics widen when Megatron peacefully dropped offline. It was a very rare thing for Megatron to recharge in the arms of any bot other than Killswitch. Even those few rare times, it was because he had refused to recharge the cycle before, and each time, he slept in the arms of Havok or Streettalk and awoke grumpy and irritable. For Megatron to fall offline so easily, without a fuss or a long cycle without rest… it spoke a great deal of Megatron's trust for this new sub-adult.

"Soundwave: accepts position. Inquiry: when will we move in?" The sudden monotone made everyone jolt a little, the exceptions being Blaster and Megatron. Killswitch was quick to respond.

"Whenever you wish," he responded as he stood. Soundwave nodded as he mirrored the lord protectorate's movements, and Blaster quickly scrambled to his pedes to stand by his brother who was nearly twice his height.

"Acknowledged. Appreciation: offered," Soundwave noted, and Killswitch grinned at him.

"I wouldn't thank me yet," Killswitch warned him blithely. "You're protecting my sparkling, and you can be sure that I'm _not_ gonna go easy on your training. Strife," Killswitch addressed his SiC, who rose to his pedes when acknowledged, "Arrange an escort to assist Soundwave and Blaster in packing their belongings, then have them set up in the nursery quarters."

"And Megatron?" Strife questioned. Killswitch gave a pained look, then one corner of his mouth rose into a smirk.

"I'm sure Soundwave can keep him safe. He knows as well as I that if he tries to kidnap him, the whole planet will be on his af—skidplate. _Primus,_ I feel like a blue-sight," Killswitch complained as he attempted to keep his language in check.

"I don't even know why you try," Strife stated. "He's growing up in the military. Kid'll be cussing once he learns to talk."

"Primus, help me," Killswitch mumbled. "Well… as you were, then. I have a prime to brag to."

With that said, Killswitch sauntered to the door with a bounce in his step. Strife turned his attention to the remaining two conscious bots in the room, then snorted at the look of unbridled awe Blaster was currently sending Killswitch as he exited the room. He shouldn't be surprised, really. Killswitch was the guardian of the lower-caste. Every mechling wanted to meet him or _be_ him.

"Well, you two, let's get a move-on. I got just the mechs to take you."

"Just the mechs" turned out to be Havok and Streettalk, both of whom were _more than happy_ to hand off their "screen duty" to another unfortunate mech. Strife handed the two new recruits off to the battleworn military mechs, and the four bots, plus one sparkling, headed off. Soundwave's first action was sliding Megatron into his cassette hold, and both of the older mechs gaped at him as his chest plate opened downwards like an energon oven and revealed a large gray space that looked like the inside of any sparkling hold. Soundwave plopped little Megatron into the hold, and the opaque armor rose back up. Once the cloudy glass covered the sparkling, hiding him from prying optics, Soundwave allowed his "hold cables" to slither forward and lift the sparkling to the back of the hold.

"Suggestion: quicker movements," Soundwave spoke up. "Cycle: third. Kaon: busy."

They took the Kaonian Metro in the end, and the trip there was time enough for Soundwave to decide he liked Streettalk _far better_ than he liked Havok. Havok was a large silver mech, very obviously built for his job as a frontliner, and Havok was also apparently very good friends with the weapons specialist, Terretan. This was proven by the plasma cannons that decorated each arm, the large shoulder cannon on his right shoulder, and the two stun-shooters on his ankles. Each weapon was currently offline and as such, sat stationary running parallel to each limb.

While Soundwave could appreciate such weaponry, he didn't quite enjoy the suspicious looks they were getting from the various bots in the vicinity. After all, Soundwave had survived this long by staying in the background, silently observing those around him and preemptively taking down anyone that thought to harm him or his brother. He would be doing such a thing now if Havok wasn't _talking_ so _loudly_.

This was the other thing Soundwave hated Havok: he was _loud_, and this coming from a mech that lived with _Blaster, _a youngling who had to make _some sort of noise_ whenever he was doing _anything_. If he was washing energon cubes, he was humming. If he was sweeping the floor, he was scatting a tune that harmonized with the _swish_ of the broom. If he was playing on the floor with his blocks, he was singing a Helixan lullaby. His sounds never stopped. Soundwave didn't mind that, though. Blaster's voice, despite his lisp gained from his attempt to talk like his Helixan father while speaking a guttural Kaonian dialect that he had learned from his Kaonian mother, was still pleasant to listen to. Unlike Soundwave's monotone vocal pattern, Blaster had inherited his father's musical voice, a voice that had attracted his military mother into his berth and eventually into his life forever.

Havok, however… He found himself wondering if he would get in trouble for ripping the annoying mech's spark out. It was only one frontliner, after all. He was certain another could be found. This was Kaon, after all, and there were _tons_ of warriors that would _love_ to have this mech's pay. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Blaster took a liking to the boisterous mech, and the two kept each other sufficiently distracted as Soundwave stood by the taciturn Streettalk.

Streettalk was the exact opposite of Havok. Whereas Havok was tall and silver, Streettalk was short and painted a midnight black. Havok carried countless weapons, some of which in plain sight, and Streettalk had no visible weapons on his frame. Havok was a frontliner and center of attention in the Metro car; Streettalk was a special ops mech and stayed silently in the background. Somehow, these two mechs were best friends. The whole way to the Metro station, Havok had talked without pausing to vent, and Streettalk had remained completely silent, optics shifting as he moved. Soundwave couldn't even hear the mech _vent_, and to be honest, Soundwave kind of hoped this quiet mech would train him to be just as silent. Soundwave had always wanted to work in Special Ops.

Once the Metro car came to a stop, Soundwave, Blaster, and their two escorts were the first to get off, mainly because of Blaster. The youngest mech had white optics, labeling him as a member of the entertainment caste, a caste far above the local militaries. Because of this, Blaster entered all vehicles first and exited first. It was a social law that very few broke. Soundwave and the others were just lucky that Blaster was the only none-red in the car.

"So how far are we headed?" Havok asked immediately, checking out his surroundings enthusiastically like a petropup that was being introduced to a new area.

"Housing unit: four blocks down, three blocks to the right." Streettalk nodded once Soundwave finished his statement and immediately took off down the street, fully expecting the others to follow him. Soundwave immediately started trailing after the mech, the other two mechs quickly moving after him. The feel of a small hand grabbing his own caused Soundwave to look down to his right. Blaster smiled up at his big brother as he tightened his grip on the older mech's hand. Soundwave could feel the excitement and love flowing through his brother's processor, his happiness like a touch of velvet on his own telepathic processor.

Blaster was always Soundwave's favorite subject when it came to his telepathic abilities. The younger mech was filled with so much life, so much innocence. Soundwave had fought harshly for that innocence. Since the day the Iaconian soldiers came and took away their creators, Soundwave had fought to protect his younger brother, to keep him from growing up in the mines or the pit fights as so many abandoned and orphaned younglings were forced to do. Soundwave knew that he would only have to support and protect the youngster until he was a sub-adult. Blaster's white optics and bubbly personality would give him the opportunities he would need to support himself for the rest of his life. The red mechling had been blessed with their mech creator's looks and his lilting voice, and that would be enough to get Blaster a well-off job in a club or bar, hopefully in Helix. Soundwave could only hope, though.

Until then, Soundwave had sworn to keep his sibling safe and healthy, a difficult task in lower Kaon. It had been when Blaster first came down with Red Fever that Soundwave fought his first fight at the Forge. It had been an unfair matchup: Soundwave, a mid-youngling at the time, against Screetfeet, a lightweight. It had been Soundwave's telepathic capabilities and a fair amount of luck that won him that fight and enough credits to pay for the antiviral medication that would save his brother's life from the red-caste-specific virus. From that moment, Soundwave began to build a name for himself and at the same time, keep his brother fed and happy. He fought one match every third solar cycle, and doing so helped him buy the slightly run-down housing unit they currently lived in and the weapons upgrades he needed to stay in the game. Even now, none of the ring runners knew of Soundwave's telepathic abilities. He was actually rather surprised Killswitch had figured it out so easily.

"So," Havok suddenly chirped, yanking Soundwave from his reverie. The mech turned his red optics to the silver mech on his unclaimed side and almost grinned at the slight grimace that took Havok's face before his grin returned. "What's with the voice?"

Soundwave was momentarily baffled both by the mech's question and by his lack of tact. He understood that his voice was strange, a monotone created by the strange mix of entertainer and warrior. He knew from experience that his voice sounded quite pleasant when he spoke the Helixan language Hylox, and the flowing language often took away the single-tone quality his voice typically held. Of course, the guttural quality of Common Kaonian made speaking with emotion far more difficult for him. Of course, Havok could have been speaking of his vocal pattern, which he most certainly could change if he wished. He didn't, though. He was about to make such a blank statement when Blaster spoke up in his behalf.

"Muh bwothuh's voith ith fine!" Blaster snapped angrily, gaining the attention of quite a few passing mechs and femmes. The road wasn't all too crowded, but one still didn't want to draw attention to himself, not in this part of town. Havok put both his hands up in an "I surrender" position.

"I wasn't saying it wasn't fine!" he defended immediately. "I was just wondering why he talked about himself in third person and stuff."

"Soundwave's vocal pattern: not Havok's concern. Suggestion: Havok mind own business."

"_See_?" Havok exclaimed, gesturing to the navy blue mech beside him. "It's like you've got a thing against pronouns."

"Statement: illogical. Conversation: useless. Suggestion: silence."

"So _that's_ it. You're antisocial!" This was stated in a very delighted voice, and Havok was wearing a winning grin. Obviously, he thought he had Soundwave figured out, and the sub-adult silently debated between bursting the idiot's bubble and allowing him to believe what he wished. After all, if Havok believed him to be antisocial, then it might mean he would turn his attention and annoying small talk back onto his brother, who would happily comply with the other mech's desire for a person to chat with.

"Conclusion: irrelevant. Havok: annoying." At this, Blaster broke out into laughter, his musical giggles rising up over the growing din. They were getting close to the marketer's district. Bots of all sizes, shapes, and colors were beginning to merge in with the ever growing foot traffic, each headed to the market to shop for amenities and necessities, mainly necessities, though. Like the other adults in the crowd, Soundwave pulled the younger mech that belonged to him closer, not wanting to chance a slave marketer, fight coordinator, or mining recruiter to get their hands on him. Though each aforementioned position sounded completely different, each had a single thing in common: unaccompanied younglings were easy prey for gaining credits. After all, those mechs were paid by commission, which meant that if they couldn't bring in a minimum numbers of mechs or femmes to work in the mines or pit fights, they wouldn't get any credits for their time and efforts. It was far easier for them to grab a youngling that wasn't being watched closely and force the kid into the ranks of whatever hell they worked for.

"This place is disgusting," Streettalk noted with a scowl as they entered the Marketing District. He wasn't lying, either. The district was nothing like the marketing streets in Iacon, with their sparkling, clean streets or their friendly tradesmechs. The Kaonian Marketing District was huge, smelly, and dirty. The ground was littered with empty energon cans, metal shavings, half-processed energon purged by overcharged mechs, and browning energon spilt by those stumbling around drunkenly after long shifts. The smell of old oil, body rust, and high grade filled the air as various mechs passed by, each too poor to afford a trip to the wash racks. Tradesmechs scowled at the lowlife that passed them, each bitter that they had not succeeded in selling to the upper castes of Iacon, each stuck selling their wares at low prices to mechs that were so far below them. The building fronts were dirty, and the city's inhabitants were even dirtier.

It was something Soundwave had sheltered his brother from rather fiercely. He could recall Blaster asking rather tactlessly as a post-sparkling youngling why one mech stank so badly. After all, Soundwave made sure to wash him at least twice a half-orn. Blaster hadn't been able to comprehend that these mechs who were so much older than his brother were poorer than they. Couldn't they just go get a job like Soundwave had? Of course, Blaster had no idea what kind of _job_ Soundwave had had. He still was left in the dark. He only knew that every third solar cycle, Soundwave would leave him with Softlight, a lower-class nurturer, then he would pick him up at the beginning of that lunar cycle.

"Turn off: next block," Soundwave informed the small group as they waded through the sea of people just to get across the street. Soundwave was the first to get through, Blaster clutched tightly to his side. Soundwave inwardly cursed that the mechling was finally too big to be carried all the time. It was far harder keeping track of him like this. Havok was next, striding up to Soundwave as he wildly shook his leg and scraped his foot against the ground. He must have stepped in something foul. Soundwave glanced around the nearby area in search of a certain black special ops mech then frowned when he couldn't catch sight of his other escort.

"Oh, don't stress it," Havok spoke up as if reading Soundwave's mind. "He's probably on a roof, creepy fragger he is."

"Acknowledged," Soundwave murmured. Then he pinned Havok with a warning look. "Suggestion: curb language around Blaster."

Havok rolled his optics but nodded all the same. Soundwave glanced up at the nearby rooftops, but didn't see a shadow or silhouette, so he decided to just go ahead to his housing unit. If he got lost, Streettalk could comm them.

Soundwave's housing unit was, as Blaster carefully put it, homey and cute. While Soundwave disagreed, he didn't feel the need to destroy Blaster's positivity. In Soundwave's optics, the housing unit was terribly tiny for two growing mechs, especially when one of those mechs was still young enough to want space to run and play. It had a single berthroom that had enough space for a single berth, which Soundwave and Blaster shared, and a shelf, a small kitchen area that Soundwave didn't really use very often, a living area with a single couch being the only furnishing, and a wash rack. The last item was actually the only reason Soudnwave purchased the housing unit. In Kaon, showers were bought and taken in a public wash rack beside other Kaonians. While cleaning armored bodies was not taboo because it was the equivalent of showering while clothed, it was still disgusting to wash oneself beside a miner caked in oil, rust, minerals, and dust. Oftentimes, one came out dirtier than they went in. Hence, Soundwave's joy at finding a housing unit with a wash rack.

Of course, that was the only positive thing about the housing unit. The rooms were small, and small holes in the walls made living difficult sometimes. Acid storms were particularly irritating. Soundwave and Blaster would hide in the back room, their berthroom, and once the acid storm was over, they would have to stay sequestered in the back of the house while the acid on the floor evaporated. On top of that, the security was nearly non-existent. The only thing keeping other Kaonians from breaking in was Soundwave's growing reputation in the gladiator circuits. Of course, Blaster genuinely believed it was because the other red sparks around him were nice and understood that they had little to give. There were times when Soundwave wished he was still that naïve. Time and experience had sufficiently beaten such childish notions away, though.

"Location: Soundwave and Blaster's housing unit," Soundwave announced as they strode inside. Blaster scurried in beside him and darted to the back room to start packing while Havok took his time walking inside.

"It's… homey," Havok noted hesitantly, obviously not able to find anything positive to say about the rust-infested housing unit. Soundwave felt a wave of irritation at the mech's statement. Yes, it was small and mildly disgusting, but it was _home_, and on top of that, this was actually one of the _better_ housing units in lower Kaon. He was about to retort something pertaining to Havok's luck in living with the Cybertronian Defense Force, but Blaster's cheerful voice interrupted him.

"Tha'th what _I_ thed!" Blaster piped up, his voice carrying through the housing unit easily as Havok's had. In the end, it was probably better that Blaster had interrupted him. He had a reputation as an emotionless mech to uphold and in this case with the Defense Force, establish.

"Blaster: continue packing," Soundwave ordered as he stalked into the kitchen. Havok trailed after him, looking around at the rust and dust with barely concealed disgust. Soundwave ignored him, though, choosing instead to pry away the part of the wall that hid his and Blaster's energon store. The wall had been built by interconnecting metal slabs, and Soundwave had discovered that one was loose after a few orns of living there. The older mech had decided to hide their energon in the little cubby holes hidden there after a mech broke into their housing unit and stole their reserves. That had been a very long three cycles…

"I'm done!" Blaster chirped as he moved into the kitchen, little pedes making a huge racket as he ran with the heavy bag. Soundwave pulled out the four energon cubes and placed them in the mesh metal bag Blaster held. They couldn't afford subspace bags, so they made do with what they could. Soundwave closed the bag and lifted it by its handles as he turned his attention back to Havok.

"Soundwave: sufficiently prepared to return to base."

"Are you sure? One bag doesn't carry much stuff," Havoc hedged, obviously trying to tell Soundwave that he didn't mind getting another bag for the mech if he couldn't afford one but not wanting to make such a tactless statement to his newest… mildly creepy comrade.

"Soundwave: sufficiently prepared to return to base," the mech repeated, his monotone voice taking on a rougher edge. Havok shrugged.

"Okay then. If you're sure…" he responded, Soundwave gave a single nod, and the three headed out, Havok leading the way. Soundwave took Blaster's hand and led him out after the larger frontliner. A tug on his hand had Soundwave pausing, and his attention turned down to the smaller, red mech at his side. Blaster was staring at their small housing unit with concern on his face. His usual emotions were tainted by concern, hesitation, and a profound sense of sorrow and loss. Ever caring of his brother's emotions, Soundwave knelt down so that he was optic-to-optic with the small mech. Blaster hesitantly looked away from the housing unit to look into his brother's red optics.

"What if thith ith a bad idea?" Blaster whispered. Soundwave glanced up at the small crowd moving around them, at the military escort that was watching them closely. He resisted the urge to sigh, as most times when he needed to comfort his brother, they were in the privacy of their housing unit.

"_We will survive, as we always do,"_ Soundwave promised his younger brother, his voice easily humming the Helixan words. This probably gained more attention than a simple hug would have. Soundwave's voice, while monotone in Kaonian, was musical when speaking Hylox, a deep thrum that matched his father's nearly perfectly. Blaster's white optics stayed locked with his brother's even as scared tears rose up.

"_What if something happens?"_ the younger asked, his young, tenor voice wavering as he spoke. Soundwave gave his younger brother a nearly nonexistent smile, and while Havok didn't notice the subtle change, to Blaster, it was like Soundwave was grinning brightly.

"_I will not allow such a thing to occur. Trust in me; I will not allow you to be harmed," _Soundwave asserted. Blaster smiled brightly at his words and nodded firmly as he used his free hand to wipe away his tears. Soundwave stood and led him away again. This time, Blaster looked back with excitement in his optics. They were moving on to a new adventure, and wherever they went, as long as Soundwave was there, Blaster knew he'd always be safe.

* * *

So yeah. Introducing Soundwave and Blaster! Soundwave's about sixteen here, and Blaster's probably around ten or eleven. Killswitch is middle-age like 'Hide, probably in his early thirties. Being about nine thousand vorns, or 746,834 years old, I think he could pull early thirties…

And allow me to explain one last time about the two brothers' voices. Both mechlings have "vocal impediments" because both were born the vocal processors of a Helixan. Helix is a musical city-state with mechs and femmes that have beautiful voices and handsome bodies. Their vocal processors have the ability to produce all sorts of noises as long as those noises are smooth and silky. As you can guess, Kaonian, a rather guttural language, is neither smooth nor silky. It'd be like comparing French and German. French flows like chocolate while German sounds kind of harsh and guttural (not that it's an ugly language. I rather like how German sounds, but the fact remains that it is not flowy like French or Spanish is ;]) Because of this, Blaster has trouble making some of the harsher sounds because his vocal processor has trouble adapting to such a different language, so his impediment comes in the form of a lisp. Soundwave has adapted his voice to fit Common Kaonian by taking the tone out, giving him a monotone voice that can properly pronounce Kaonian words. Hope that makes sense.

"Primelet…" Sounds kinda cute, right? I mean, the primes were sent from Primus, so I guess they're the angels of Cybertron, right? So primelet would be like an angel of Primus. I mean, you couldn't call your sparkling a little prime because there _is_ a little prime! So primelet… I'd like to think it's one of my more creative words. :)


End file.
